


Line of Defense

by CatalpaWaltz



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - West Wing, Alternate Universe - secret service, Bad Codenames, Blow Jobs, Hotel Sex, M/M, Power Dynamics, Special Agent!GW, Speechwriter!Ben, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 07:58:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8320027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatalpaWaltz/pseuds/CatalpaWaltz
Summary: When rookie White House speechwriter Benjamin Tallmadge becomes the unlikely target of increasingly-troublesome death threats, he's ordered to accept Secret Service protection. It goes about as well as you might expect.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nimravidae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nimravidae/gifts).



> Shamelessly cribbed from that one storyline in TWW, written in apology for getting Nim into "this stupid show" and also because let's admit it Ian Kahn with a sharp suit and an earpiece is something we'd all very much like to see. 
> 
> This piece won't be more than a couple of chapters, and shouldn't get in the way of updates to AUEF.

He stands in the hallway, arms folded in front of him, pretending not to listen to the sounds filtering from the other side of the door. Normally Washington prides himself on his discretion, his ability to remain unentangled with the constant hum of business all around him, to focus on his own job. But in this case, he thinks he might be forgiven for hearing the play-by-play of this particular meeting. To call it a 'civil conversation' would be to subscribe to a very loose definition of civility, that's for sure. 

_ "Just sign the fucking thing, Tallmadge. This is a waste of time. Potus already made the call."  _

Tom Paine's voice, London accent well-pronounced, echoes off the walls of the hallway. Scott chimes in. 

_ "This isn't up for debate, Ben. It's done."  _

_ "Then I'll speak to the President and get him to change his mind. I'm telling you, this is absolutely unnecessary."  _

The young man's voice is raised to match his superiors', giving no ground. 

_ "Whether it's necessary or not isn't in any way up to you," says Scott tonelessly.  _

_ "It's my life, I'm pretty sure it should be up to me."  _

_ "Well it isn't," snarls Paine. "Sign the order or we're revoking your credentials. That's our final word."  _

An awkward silence descends, the tension palpable even from where Wash is standing. He shifts in his stance, feet settling deeper into the carpet. The silence lengthens. 

" _ Fine," _ Tallmadge snaps.  _ "Just fine. Are you happy, then?"  _

_ "Over the moon," Scott deadpans.  _

_ "We hear about you making a fuss," Paine chimes in, "we're gonna have a problem. Now be a good boy and do as you're told, and don't forget that it's only temporary. I'm sure the more cooperative you are the sooner everything will get resolved."  _

_ "That doesn't make any sense," Tallmadge mutters. "But whatever."  _

Behind him, Washington hears the sound of the door creaking open. 

"Ta," says Paine over his shoulder, to where the young speechwriter is presumably still fuming. The Brit and Scott launch into an unrelated discussion of an upcoming press conference before making their way down the corridor, ignoring Washington as though he's just part of the decor. It might, he thinks distantly, be vaguely dehumanizing if he weren't so perfectly used to it. 

After a few more seconds tick by, he hears the lone inhabitant of the office sigh and shuffle over to the door. 

"Hey, could you come in here for a moment?" asks Tallmadge, sticking his head out into the hallway. Washington complies silently, shutting the door behind him. 

The kid's office is more like a broom closet, tucked in amidst the crowded lower levels of the building. Washington has to resist the urge to duck through the door to keep from bonking his head on the frame. His brand new charge is leaning against the desk, shoulders a little slumped. He fixes Washington with a withering look, unmarshalled by any kind of discipline. 

"So, how does this work?" Tallmadge asks. "Are you just going to...loom there? All the time?" 

"Well that depends," Washington says, purposefully vague. 

"On what?" 

"On how hard you intend to make it for me to do my job." 

Tallmadge snorts. 

"Alright, so let's say I'm a  _ good boy, _ " says Tallmadge drolly. "What does that win me?" 

Washington frowns. 

"I only meant that the more I can count on you not running off or willfully evading protection, the more flexible we can be." 

"I don't understand why any of this is even necessary. You guys aren't actually taking these people seriously are you? Tallmadge says, and it sounds to Washington as though he's speaking more to the universe at large than he is speaking directly to him. 

"Besides," he continues, muttering, "it's not as though I can't handle myself." 

Washington isn't entirely disinclined to agree. He did his homework on this kid before reporting this morning: NROTC at Yale, MCB Quantico, several years of active service and several more at the Pentagon before acceding to a request by several members of the President's campaign staff whom he had known in school to come and serve in a very different capacity. It's an impressive resume, but it doesn't do a thing to change Washington's own orders. 

"We received a credible threat against your life from dangerous people who we have reason to take seriously. That should be enough for you." 

"I don't even know why -- that is, I don't  _ make _ policy. I just write about it," he says, definitely pouting now. "You'd think if these people really were serious they'd do their research and figure out that I'm hardly who they should be going after." 

"Well I'm sure if you simply send them a letter explaining their mistake they'll be very receptive," Washington deadpans, earning himself the first chuckle he's heard from Ben since he showed up at the young man's office that morning, to vigorous opposition. 

"But really," he continues, "there's never any telling what these kinds of people will fixate on, or who they will choose to target. More than likely they see you as something like low-hanging fruit." 

"Ripe for the picking," Ben quips bitterly. 

"Something like that," Washington answers. 

* * *

It's not the very worst detail that he's ever been on, quite frankly. Ben (it became too difficult to keep thinking of him as "Mr. Tallmadge" quite early on, despite the fact that professional decorum still requires Washington to address him as such) doesn't exactly get out much, and doesn't have too many friends in town. Mostly, he works. Goes home. Cooks dinner. Works out. Sleeps.

He grumbles a little about not being able to walk or drive himself to meetings in Arlington or on the Hill, but quickly stops once he realizes how nice it is to not have to worry about parking his car anywhere, though he's quick to say how much it makes him feel ridiculous. 

Mostly, he just behaves as though Washington isn't there. And that's fine. Sometimes though, it seems to Washington that Ben's beginning to warm to him. 

Maybe. 

"How does this sound to you?" Ben asks him once, barrelling out of the door to his office with a legal pad in his hand, a pen tucked behind his ear. 

"The European Union's commitment to mutual aid and economic cooperation allowed a continent embroiled in centuries of recurrent conflict to pass into the new millennium on an unprecedented footing of peace," he says, enunciating carefully in a pitch-perfect imitation of Potus.

He finishes with a flourish, pulling the legal pad away and looking up at Washington with an expression of great expectation. 

Washington blinks. 

"It's a little clunky," he admits grudgingly. 

"It's shit is what it is," Ben mutters, drawing the pen from behind his ear and getting it between his teeth. Washington gets a look at the legal pad and sees line after line of crossed-out and scribbled-over language. 

"I'm very sure you'll get there," Washington says, though he's sure it's cold comfort. 

"Doubtful," Ben says. "I didn't really get into this to talk about trade policy, you know. There are only so many ways to make it sound convincing." 

"Is that so," says Washington, wary of getting drawn too far into the weeds. But Ben seems perfectly happy to keep talking. 

"I mean no one can really predict what markets will do, much less international markets," he muses, looking off into the middle distance, "but we do have really powerful evidence that nations that buy and sell from each other tend not to try and kill each other, and I think that's worth grappling with the domestic implications, in my mind." 

He trails off, no longer looking at Washington with any expression of expectation, shifting on his feet like he's thinking of going back to his desk. Washington speaks before he's able to restrain himself. 

"Then why can't you reframe the issue in those terms? Change the conversation from economics to geopolitics."

Ben laughs aloud. 

"I don't think it's really in my power to 'reframe' anything in any terms. Nice try though. But that being said," he says, fixing Washington with a stare like an X-ray machine that makes him struggle not to shift uncomfortably on his feet, "it might be worth a shot." 

"Sure," says Washington, hoping his voice doesn't sound so unsteady to Ben as it does to him. 

As he watches, Ben stares thoughtfully at his paper for a few more seconds, head cocked to one side, the cap of his pen clacking audibly against his teeth. He appears to come to some sort of revelation, takes one deep, sharp inhale and then darts back into his office before Washington can say another word. 

* * *

That first conversation opens a door that, if Washington were being honest, he probably would have thought was more like a wall. Ben starts thinking aloud more and more, asking Washington what he thinks might play best, what makes most sense. He does note that Ben never asks him how to spell anything after Washington blanks on the number of 'h's in "rhythm."

The first time Ben tells him  _ "sit down will you? It's hard to ask you questions when you're...towering like that, _ " Washington scarcely hesitates before complying, even when he recognizes later that he probably -- no,  _ definitely _ \--  should not have done it. It's a whole different ballgame when he's off his feet, taking a load off in Ben's cheap, government contract-bid conference chair and watching the way Ben's hands gesture along with the words as he reads through his draft, long fingers fluttering, tongue darting out every once in a while to wet his chapped lips. 

Even worse, he positively chafes at the formality that Washington tries his best to enforce when they're out of earshot. But nothing compares to his disdain for his own codename. 

They're heading out in the direction of the Ellipse when Washington holds his wrist up to his mouth, speaks into the wire at his sleeve. 

"Hold a seat for us, Bandit is on his way." 

Normally it's enough to earn him an eyeroll, a frustrated sigh. But today Ben turns 180 on his heel and scowls at him. 

"Jesus, can we maybe can it with that codename? It sounds like something you'd -- I don't know -- something you'd call your tame raccoon." 

Washington blinks. 

"I beg your pardon?" 

"What's so wrong with my first name, honestly?"

"I'm not sure what you want me to say. It's protocol. Would you rather be called 'sir'? Instead?"

He says it casually, as offhand as he can, but either it's his imagination, or there's a definite shift in the air of the room. He has to fight the sudden urge to loosen his tie. 

"Of course not," Ben says, after just a beat too long. 

"Alright then," says Washington, regaining his footing. "They're waiting for you, you should probably --" and here he gestures out the door. 

They're nearly out of the building by the time Ben seems to collect himself enough to have composed a suitable response. 

"I meant it," he says, turning around to face Washington. "At least where your bosses won't hear you, just 'Ben' is really fine." 

Washington sighs.

"You know perfectly well I'm not allowed to call a protectee by their first name."

"I'm not -- I'm not your  _ protectee _ ," Ben whispers, casting sidelong looks at the rows of occupied desks crowding the bullpen, painfully conscious of their audience. "I'm just some guy that you've been tasked with professionally harassing, and I gotta say, you're doing a real bang up job so far." 

"By all means," Washington says, steering him by his elbow so that they won't miss them motorcade. "Don't hold back. Tell me how you really feel." 

* * *

If things take an odd turn after that, Washington can't say if it's because Ben's suddenly deluged with work preparing for the President's keynote at the DNC, or because weeks pass without any progress being made in stemming the steady tide of threats on Ben's life, or because of some other reason. But he's fairly sure the change isn't in his imagination.

He starts taking more overnight shifts, ostensibly to cut the rest of his team a break and because he, as they're so fond of reminding him, has no life. Ben starts coming into the office with an extra cup of coffee: two creams, three sugars. He asks about what books George has been reading, what games he watched over the weekend. Little things, distracted questions and probing looks, and it's probably just a function of their growing familiarity that he feels able to be so casual, or that's what Washington tells himself. 

He doesn't object on those rare occasions when Washington has to get his attention with a low-voiced "sir?" But that's neither here nor there. 

He flies out with Ben to Hartford for the convention, listens dutifully to the speech Ben worked so hard to write. After listening to so many iterations of so many lines intoned in Ben's crisp, earnest voice, he has to say the President doesn't even begin to do it justice. 

But Ben's over the moon. He goes on and on as Washington walks him back to his hotel room, recalling the waves of ovation his lines had earned, the roaring approval of the convention crowds and the sure support of the party members watching from home, strong language making for elegant spin and powerful soundbites. 

The door beeps as Ben swipes his keycard, and Washington is just about to turn away when he feels a tug at his sleeve. 

Ben's standing much closer than he had been , eyes an almost unnatural blue under the glare of the fluorescent lights. 

"You know if you're not working," he says, voice low, "you could always stay a bit. Have a drink with me." 

Washington catches a trace of Ben's cologne on the air. They're too close.

"This isn't -- this is a terrible idea," Washington whispers, eyes darting to the side to ensure that no one else is coming their way. "I can't." 

"Yeah," Ben mutters, gaze fixed on Washington's mouth. "You're right," he says, as he takes one more tentative step forward, leans in. Washington's eyes flutter closed. 

The truth is, he's never been able to look at his job as some kind of sacred compact. It's not much different than any other nine-to-five. He understood perfectly well how to clear the various hurdles of psychology that had been placed before him when he'd interviewed, all the arcane personality tests designed to make sure that he would do his duty and take the bullet if called upon to do so. And Washington has no doubt that he would. But it's a big leap from taking his position seriously to willfully denying himself what's obviously on offer out of some stubborn adherence to abstract obligation. He bends down. 

Ben tastes a little like the energy drink he'd been sipping during the last hour, toiling away backstage at some cut-and-paste remarks for an upcoming state dinner. Washington chases down the flavor of citrus and chemicals, unsure why it's suddenly so addictive, why the little whimpering sigh that Ben gives when he cradles the back of his head and draws him in closer is so perfectly electrifying. 

Ben sits him down at the edge of the unmade bed and kneels down between his spread legs. He takes far, far too long to get Washington out of his pants, that damned sense of dramatic timing hard at work as he pulls down Washington's zipper millimeter by millimeter, looking up at him with eyes bright and grin sharp, as though daring Washington to take control, to  _ make him _ go faster. 

But Washington knows himself. He knows there's pleasure in this too, in his own white-knuckled grip on the edge of the mattress, in the set of his jaw as Ben teases him with the flat of his palm over the cloth of his boxers, head cocked to one side as though Washington were a piece of art at a gallery that he's pretending to thoughtfully consider. In being made to wait for it. 

And when Ben finally swallows him down, finally takes a hold of Washington's hand and sets in on the back of his head and  _ shows _ Washington how he wants to have his mouth fucked, it's precisely what he wants from the moment. 

* * *

"You know," Ben says later, breathless, "that's the first time you've called me by my first name since we met."

"That so?" asks Washington idly, looking up at the ceiling. He'd offered to retreat to his own customary haunt on the pull-out couch in the living room of the hotel suite, but Ben had requested that he stay. So he stays.    
  
  



End file.
